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Now it’s your thirtieth birthday, one supposes,
You’ll destroy that portrait that decomposes
(Like Dorian Gray’s) up in your attic,
Now the Grim Reaper’s summons grows more emphatic.
Approaching senility brings lack of agility,
Diminished virility, reduced capability;
The sags and the bags,
The wrinkles and crags
Can only be patched by Botox-wielding physicians,
While your narrow waist and broad mind swap their positions.
Father Time’s theft of your zest and your vigour,
Gravity’s remorseless assault on your figure,
Hairs that sprout from your chins’ dormant follicles,
Are all signs you’re dissolving to your constituent molecules.
So with the utmost sincerity, characteristically humbly,
I salute you, O Ela! now you’re officially crumbly.
(In homage to William McGonagall.)